Nine Months Later

Dear Lorenzo,

Right now it's 7:08 a.m. and I've been up for the past two hours or so.  This used to be my favorite time of day.  I loved being the only person awake in the house.  More often than not I'd wake up, creep out of Amira's room having slept there the night before, and peek into our room where you would have only recently fallen asleep.  The tv would still be on (though Family Guy would have long given way to some Comedy Central paid programming) and our bed would be littered with cereal boxes and Back To Nature cookie wrappers.  Your blue bowl would be perched precariously on the stool you kept bedside, and I'd wonder for the umpteenth time how you managed to never knock it over in your sleep.  I'd bring your debris to the kitchen, recycle the empty boxes, wash up all of the dinner and midnight snack dishes, then set about preparing for our day.

Everything's different now.

For the first time in my life, early morning is no longer my favorite time. 

Instead, my favorite moments now occur on Monday through Friday at exactly 1:00 p.m. because that's when NFL Live comes on.

I love football.  I love watching the Pats win virtually every game they play.  I love catching the highlights of games I'd previously missed, shown ad nauseum on ESPN.  I love watching superbowl commercials and halftime shows, Sunday Morning Countdown and Mike and Mike, but I have never met anyone who loved football as much as you.

Having opted not to learn the sex of our unborn child, you spent months planning "his" NFL career.  Your plan was to name our future running back DOMINANT so he'd have the "dopest football name ever".

 When she was born, instead of shelving your dreams you began to plan Amira's barrier-breaking future as the first female kicker in the NFL.

You bragged for weeks about the time you threw Amira a touchdown pass in a friendly game played at a family cookout.

 We went to Bears Friends and Family Day every year that you weren't scheduled to work, ignoring the fact that the Bears have sucked for years, would inevitably suck again, and that within the first month of the season, you'd be sure to have given up on them and have resigned yourself to not making it to the playoffs.  Again.    

During football season you watched ESPN and NFL network every waking hour, and at night, I'd catch you whispering to your brother on the phone about the week's upcoming games and your chances of making big money in Vegas.

 You've been gone for nine months now. 

 I can no longer smell your scent on your clothes.  I will never again hear you shout at me from the confines of your basement theater to bring you an Izze's and a pee bucket.

I will never again watch you fall off of the futon, tears rolling down your face, laughing uproariously at something that happened on Family Guy, American Dad, or Blackish.  But on weekdays, from 1-2 p.m. I've had Trey Wingo and Herm Edwards and one of the Hassleback brothers that I can never differentiate between since like I've told you before, they add so little to the show.

 And at 1:00 p.m. Monday through Friday, I allow myself to pretend. I pretend that you're still here with me, taking note of every word from Adam Scheffter or Mel Kiper so that you can get ready for the upcoming draft.  I heard your joyful exuberance at the prospect of Marshawn Lynch coming out of retirement to play for the Raiders. "Aw shit, we're going to the bowl, we're going to the bowl" you would have shouted repeatedly while  jumping up and down on the futon before jumping up and down on me.  "Get off of me, fool" I would have laughed while pushing you off and reminding you that, "there's no way in hell the Raiders are going to beat the Pats in the championship game."

But yesterday, I didn't watch NFL Live.  You've been gone for nine months and in that time I've managed to parent our daughter but do very little else.  My heart, my attention just isn't in ANYTHING I do that isn't related to Amira.  I have zero interest in virtually every area of my life that doesn't remind me of you and I know I can't go on living this way.  It isn't healthy. It isn't what you'd want for me.  It isn't what I want for myself.

You are and will always be the love of my life.  Thank you for teaching me the true definition of love.  Thank you for putting up with me and all of my bullshit.  Thank you for being my partner, my baby's daddy, my biggest cheerleader, and my best friend.

Nine months.  I cannot believe you've been gone for nine months.


It would have been enough time for me to have had another baby.  It would have been enough time for me to write a book.  It would have been enough time for me to do ANYTHING besides lie on the couch under the covers, only sticking my head out to watch NFL Live and shove potato chips down my throat.

 Lorenzo, I have to let you go.

Not my memories of you, those will always be cherished.  Not my love for you, that will never die.  But I have to let go of the dreams I had of our future together because through no fault of our own, they aren't going to happen after all.

Nine months is enough time to complete any myriad of tasks and in the nine months that you've been gone I've finally reached the one stage I never really wanted to get to.

Acceptance.